Kiss Me, Kill Me (on hiatus)
by Asrailefay
Summary: All-Human. Not Canon. Sookie POV. WARNING: Lots (TONS) of adult language and suggestive themes, including reference to violence/murder. Summary:"If I don't look like the kind of girl who would sooner kill you then kiss you, congratulations – you have been lulled into a false sense of security by my deliberately misdirecting appearance..." E/S coupling (on hiatus)
1. Prelude

**A/N: Prelude to my newest work... Updates will arrive intermittently and sporadically... Excited to hear all your thoughts...**

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"Stop talking! STOP TALKING!"

I shriek with much more panic in my voice than I intend for there to be, barely staving off the mutinous tears begging to be released, glistening at the corners of my eyes.

His are deep and blue - fathomless - stormy like the ocean during a summer squall; they're speaking volumes to me.

"You don't have to do this," He whispers lowly, "We could run away together, leave all this bullshit behind. I... love you..."

His mouth parts to spill out more words and pleas, but my sharp tongue cuts right through him - demanding his silence.

"What did I just say to you about shutting up?! Fucking hell. Let me think for a fucking minute!"

I spit and hiss at him through gritted teeth, rubbing the cold barrel of my gun against my temple as I pace nervously in front of the chair he's tied to. Perspiration speckles across my brow as I digest not only his words, but the scene before me. It's a small metal chair and he's a big tall man; despite the tight ropebinds around his wrists and ankles, I can't help but think that if he wanted to get up, he could. I wonder how long it'll take before the drugs wear off and he figures out he's more than capable of helping himself. I doubt I've got more than a few minutes.

What the fuck am I gonna do?

I spin the silencer off, tossing it across the room without caring where it ends up. It clatters as it hits the cement floor and rolls under the worn and blood-stained couch. I can't help but think that sometimes decisions are made for you, not by you.

"I'm sorry," I don't know what else to say, "I wish it was that simple."

BANG!

I jerk back when it recoils, hitting myself square in the cheekbone with the butt of the gun – that'll be a bruise, but I'm sure nothing's broken; fucking great – right before the shot bursts through my eardrums deafening me, at least temporarily – and damn does that smart. I slump to the floor clutching my head in agony, wondering how the fuck everything went so wrong so quick, unabashedly crying for the first time in almost decades…


	2. Introductions

**FINAL WARNING:**

 **Lots ( TONS) of cursing/adult language and suggestive themes, including references to violence/murder.**

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 _A/N: Great guessing, Hummingbirdgrrl! Thanks Mrskroy for being my awesome beta!_

 _Also, please note that a prelude and a prologue are not exactly the same thing. Happy Reading!_

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 **oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

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If I don't look like the kind of girl who would sooner kill you then kiss you, congratulations – you have been lulled into a false sense of security by my deliberately misdirecting appearance, my carefully crafted persona punctuated by an air of confidence, lightly curled waves of strawberry blonde hair, and a well-practiced sparkle in my eye.

You're so fucked.

I've been called lots of names – some of them more explicit than descriptive – but I still prefer when someone spits "honeypot" or "bait" at me venomously right before I depress the trigger of my 9mm – with a smirk on my face and a song in my heart – the barrel pressed snuggly against the guy's temple. They never actually think I'm going to go through with it – dumbasses; I love being underestimated and marginalized – in truth, it's what makes me really fucking good at my job. And I really fucking like my job. Before you go thinking I'm a monster, I'm not killing people for sport – or for fun – if I've got a bullet with your name on it, it's because you deserve it – trust me. I mean I don't know exactly what you've done, but I know it's an atrocity or I wouldn't waste my breath – my bosses know my moral code.

It's not an intricate or elegant system; I get a contract, it has your name on it, so I come for you. And you don't survive – because I am that good. End of story. If you think that makes me an awful bitch, good news! – that's another name I don't necessarily mind being called.

In fact, some days I think I should get it tattooed on my ass – heinous bitch – so that when I slip off my pants, waggling my cheeks as you waggle your tongue – my thong on display – you eye the plain, harsh truth of what I _really_ am, catch a quick glimpse of my non-sweet angelness right before you spy the gun tucked into the holster at my hip. The thing you're about to get fucked with – and NOT like that! Ugh, I'm not a sadist or a sick freak. Masochist? Up for debate.

No, I just enjoy saying 'fucked' – a fucking lot. In fact, I allow myself many _many_ vices, cursing being the least of them.

Now before you guys go thinking that I work for the mob, it's not the mob. Let's just say it's a highly organized group of vigilantes who well incentivize ordinary-looking citizens like myself who have an aptitude for blending in, going unnoticed, who seem innocuously innocent and weak. When I'm not doing this, I'm pretending to be Miss Susie Sunshine herself, the dutiful wife – not _yet_ mother – to a man I'm most definitely not married too.

Welcome to my parlor show of tricks and illusions.

I'm not a black widow, or a heartless jerk – fake hubbie's my handler – and while I'm sure he hopes one day I'm gonna break down and fuck him, it's not like that. He and I were actually working as grifters for years – taking advantage of undersexed men who thought they'd hit the ever-loving mother fucking jackpot as I sat down beside them in a bar, crossing and uncrossing my legs in a way that screamed sex, while demurely sipping on a virgin Shirley temple. Men maybe don't jump up and down at thinking they'll your first, but hells yeah if they aren't dying to be your second – makes them feel like they don't have to break you in, but they can still get you to do all kinds of vile things that seasoned women know to say no to.

Poor delusional men – so simple, so gullible – carrying way too much cash on their person too, but I guess I shouldn't complain since it was to my benefit.

So I hear you, over there, asking what of the fucking moral code I claimed? Yeah, well, it's not like they were good guys! Hell, to find your way onto my shit list, to become my prey – at least before I got into this contract gig – you basically had to pretty openly be a lecher, a sick sad little fuck who groped at women as they passed by you or did that gross thing some men think is flirting when they essentially waggle their tongue at you, simulating oral sex (I guess?) – has any women ever been like, OH MY GOD! He's amazing and I want to fuck him! He has a tongue and everything – my only requirement! NO! We don't look away to blush; we turn our heads to upchuck every decent thing we ever tried to think about the opposite sex.

I don't pretend I don't have issues – so don't bother judging me.

Robbery? Yep, that was my primary source of income, but killing people? I'd never done that before – you know, until I had.

Yeah, murder for hire wasn't exactly the kind of job I was looking to find. It's a newish development to have jumped on the contract killing train – my faux hubby and I – joining an already in-progress world hidden under regular society that strives to cull out the evil and wretched advocates against goodness and virtue. It's sort of like we hopped sideways onto the straight and narrow path, if you want to call it that. I know I do. I'm not gonna lie – it wasn't exactly a choice; well it was but the choice was shit: life sentence or hired assassin.

Guess which one I picked?

It was a stupid fucking mistake – the thing that got me here – and one I don't wanna talk about right now. Maybe later, but prolly not. I'm sure I'll pay for it sometime or another in spades, but it's just simply _not_ that fucking time yet.

I wasn't fucking eager to pick up a gun – at first. I remember shaking with the metal death device in my hand like it was a bomb ready to explode. When I first fired it – the shot ringing like hell in my ears; fuck them for not warning me to wear protective gear – I fell squarely on my ass and got quite the nasty bruise. Sore for weeks – WEEKS! But then I started feeling like it was some extension of my hand, and I itched when the cold steel wasn't warming itself against my naked skin. I guess I sorta took to firearms like a fish takes to water. Funny, since I always loved to swim. Guppy; they called me guppy when I was little squirt, flying through a pool like I was a dolphin in a past life – maybe I was; who fucking knows?

Prolly not; dolphins don't seem like natural predators – but I am.

My childhood's not the fucking point of this story, nor is it any of your goddamn business. But if you must know – if it'll help you to untangle the enigma that is me – it wasn't a happy one – as if you couldn't have guessed that. I lost my parents when I was barely a squeaker, got shoved unceremoniously into foster care, and raked through a system that held no comforts – or fucking benefits – for a little disturbed girl as old as I already was. No one's real excited to house the child of serial-killer's victims, the young girl found by police bathing in her parents' blood, screaming her tiny lungs out – terrified out of her mind. You know, no one except my child-molesting son-of-a-bitch uncle.

There. Aren't you sorry you were even the tiniest bit curious?

I ran – by the way – far away from the monster of a man who saw me as a convenient check and soft body – nothing else, no familial affections there; not the aboveboard kind at least – knowing he'd struggle to explain my absence, and to feed his fucking perverted addictions to young flesh. Shoulda killed in him in sleep – fuck all _I should have_! And you might even agree – but you've gotta know that at the time I still believed in the universe, in the goodness of people. Even if that piece of filth had definitely had eroded my last shred of faith in any kind of merciful God.

Of course that fucktard hadn't done that all on his own – the monster who had stolen everything from me definitely contributed to that cause.

In truth – because I'm human after all, even if you don't believe it – I left to look for my grandmother, who I was sure – so sure! – would come for me the first couple of days I was stuck sleeping in a government building, while the supposed world searched for my next of kin. She lived in Monroe, Louisiana; I told them so! How fucking hard was that!? I yelled it over and over as officers shook their heads at me, casting their eyes away, patting me on the shoulder like a goddamn charity case.

How was I supposed understand their unspoken meanings? Body language wasn't exactly my forte – I was seven!

It's not like any of them bothered to tell me she was dead – slaughtered by the same madman who killed my parents, or at least that's what I think – or really what everyone fucking thinks. I know because I read the file, many years later, after Sam – my faux husband and I – traveled back to my hometown under the cover of night and broke into the police station, rifling through files – flashlights held by our teeth – until we found the manila folder I was looking for.

"M. and C. Stackhouse, parents to one Sookie Stackhouse (fuck off, it's a real name, look it up!) murdered in their privacy of their own home (crime scene pictures as proof, in case descriptions of the carnage weren't enough – ick and puke-inspiring), their son Jason Stackhouse kidnapped – never recovered."

Oh yeah, I had a brother too. HAD – presumed dead by all, and I guess me too – never resurfacing alive or dead, even after fifteen years passed by – agonizingly on-the run; not in the blink of an eye. But whatevs. Everyone gets dealt their own shitty hand at the game of life and there's not one fucking day that doesn't pass that I even the slightest tinge of guilt for being the only one to survive. Fate's got a wicked sense of humor – to this day, I can't tell you why I fucking thought I should sleep outside in the tree by my window that night; I don't think I'll ever remember, but it happened.

100% the only reason I'm alive today.

UGH! Things I don't wanna talk about. Done! No more mopey, sad Sookie talk. I kill people for a living for Christ's sakes! You think I'd be able to stomach a little heartache and sorrow – I sure as hell cause enough of it. (But. Nope. Inside, I'm still just that little girl shaking her cold mother's body by the chest, begging her – BEGGING HER – to wake up.)

Exhibit A, my dear jury; those are just _some_ of the issues I warned you not to judge me for.

Sam says I'm a little too aggressive – abrasive and cold – and I'm not exactly disinclined to agree – but what the fuck of it? He's always handled his demons, his darker self, better than I do – which is why I let him handle me, point me in the right direction and guide me in and out of danger on our quest to meet the unknown quota we've been given to secure our freedom. Don't misunderstand this arrangement; he doesn't use me to do his dirty work – if that's what you're thinking – if anything, I use him because we're damned because of my fuck-up, not his.

Lesson of the story, kids – don't fuck with the wrong people.

Backstory done. I think you've got the gist of it, the fucking joyful mess I find myself – and my only friend, even if I don't trust him too much more than I could throw him (not that I trust anyone other than myself, and some days, even that's up for debate) – in. My life is so ass backwards, I don't know if I'm coming or going anymore. Not gonna lie – the only time I feel alive at all is when I'm peering through the small sight on my 9mm, finger poised at the trigger, during the microcosm of a second before I tug at the metal and divest the world of one more worthless piece of shit that we're all better off without.

So yeah, if there's anything I love, it's my fucking job.

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"Sookie!"

Sam's chiding me, stomping around the room as he fists his hands – not threatening me, mind you, but the wall maybe should brace itself for a potential impact.

Admonishment has become part of my daily life – not in a weird fatherly way – Sam just worries about me, a little too much for my own fucking taste. But in all fairness to my partner-in-crime, I did just tell him a story about narrowly escaping with my life while working our last contract – don't worry, I won (yay me!) But apparently the guy was into erotic asphyxiation – definitely wasn't expecting that – which made it a little difficult to call for help or do much of anything other than claw at his hands as my world turned to blacks and blues – such a strong and nasty son-of-a-bitch; his hands were the size of oven mitts!

Autonomic responses are a godsend by the way; my flailing legs finally swinging into the douche's nut sack before I lost consciousness entirely. He didn't even suspect I was there to kill him; he just really got off on choking people.

"Sam…" I spit back, "You know it's your fucking job to do the reconnaissance, figure out what these sick fucks like so I don't go in fucking blind!"

He winces – I win! (I'm childish, and I'm okay with that) – looking down to study the brown braided tassels on his shoes, kicking at nonexistent dust. He's been distracted recently – he knows it; I know it – and it's been affecting his work. Honestly, my guess is that he's just fucking tired of this life. I can't blame him, not really, but if he can't get his ass into gear, he'll have to go – I'm risking my life enough as it is without knowing in advance what these pervs are capable of – and I tell him so.

He doesn't take it well – no surprise there.

"What the fuck, Sooks? You just tryin' to get rid of me?"

He sounds mad, but I can hear the hurt in his words – he thinks I'm trying to push him away; he doesn't understand that you can't push someone away if you've never been close to them. But I'm not heartless – not a completely closed tomb – and while we've never been as close as he thinks, he is still the only person I've got on my side, in my court, watching out for me. I reiterate it in my impassionate speech, or at least the best I can; words are not my thing – neither are displays of affections… maybe I don't have a thing…

"Of course not, Sam! But if you're not watching my back, who's gonna be?!"

His face falls entirely, turning red and speckled. Check and mate. I'm not a user by nature, but Sam and I have been together – friendly-like, not romantically – for years and honestly I think I've become a little codependent. (It happens! – even to the stoniest of us!) I… don't wanna lose him; he's my security blanket. Especially after all we've been through…

"I'M NOT LEAVING YOU!"

He screams, not answering my question – that's called avoidance, for all of you out in the peanut gallery, cause we both know I have no one else. But what I spy in his timbre is his hesitancy – the jig is up, probably because he's found someone more apt for him. At his next utterance, I'm certain of it, "But don't you ever get tired of this?" He means our situation, and no I don't get tired of it – if anyone other than Sam is interested in my answer – "This life of killing and running?"

I wanna lie to him, really I do, because I am definitely afraid of being alone, especially after being 'with' Sam for almost fifteen years, but he's showing weakness – for the first time ever – and I can't abide it; it'll get us both killed. No, I won't let him suck me into whatever sinkhole he's found himself in that's apparently tearing him apart and pulling him under.

"No, I've never been happier."

And maybe that's sad, but it's true – even with the death threats and near death experiences, it's better than wishing for death – a hell of a lot better in fact. But Sam's not wishing for death; he's hoping for life – outside this, away from me. Who am I to deny him his freedom?

Fuck! I'm so torn right now between wanting to push him away for his weak-link nature or for his own good. Same outcome either way; easy response, and I figure the fucking rest out later, while I coddle myself and soothe my own fears.

"Go the fuck away!"

I scream at a dull roar, not so much a whisper.

"Sooks…"

Ugh! Answered: for his own good.

He's… aggravating, trying to protect me, keep me… Our relationship is important to me, but fuck it if I don't feel guilty – how can I pick me over him? Especially after I accidentally trapped him into this life.

"Run, Sam. Run! This is not your cross to bear, not your problem," My small heart is breaking – I'm going to be oh-so-fucking alone, "I won't tell them where you've gone; I swear it! They may not even bother looking for you since they'll still have me…" My fortitude and resolve belied by my wavering and pleading tone.

"I met someone," He cut me off – no fucking shit, Sam; OBVIOUSLY!

"Oh."

It's all I can say.

"She's pretty amazing; you should meet her – you'd like her."

Of course, he wants me to like her because Sam's never recognized what it's like to twist the knife in – even when he was the one doing it. He's always been a little 'glass house' that – can't throw stones and shatter things cause he's in his own world. Things will be harder without him, but maybe it'll be nice not to live worried about breaking his sweet-natured sensibilities – keeping all my dark thoughts to myself, letting them consume me – he's never really taken to this life.

He only really liked it – suffered it easily – when we were hot and heavy into pretending to be a couple – something not exactly needed in Las Vegas, our current haunt, like it was in Middle America manicured lawn, white-picket-fence suburbia. I'm not quite sure that to him it was any less of a real marriage, even without papers, than it would have been with them – not at all what it was to me; a fucking cover story.

"Sure, Sam," I agree through gritted teeth – literally biting my tongue, metallic liquid spilling into my mouth and down my throat; I choke it down without coughing – "Sounds great. Pick the when and where and I'll be there. I'd love to meet her."

Yep, I'm a fucking masochist; I'm sure of it now.

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Hours later, we traipsed across town to Sam's new girl's apartment, but that little introduction didn't go as planned; in fact, the scene is a royal clusterfuck if ever there was one.

Sam's reduced to a shriveled mess, bawling his eyes out like an infant on the floor; while I'm patting him on the back, sitting on my knees beside him, counting in-between each touch – one Mississippi, two Mississippi... – I don't know why; it just fucking feels like the right thing to do. Comfort's never really been my strong suit, and I'm certainly not going to hold him, so this is fucking option number two.

Option one is off the fucking table.

Until Sam practically climbs into my lap, willing me to coddle him like a child. Fine, just this once, I tell myself and then him. He ignores my chilly response to his need for physical closeness - that's probably for the best; he did just lose someone he thought he could grow to love and I'm not excelling at showing any modicum of sympathy for his pain. Best I've got to offer is a monotonous "there, there" as he sobs into my chest. This shirt is ruined; fuck, I really liked this shirt.

What the fuck is wrong me? How can I be such a bitch to a man who acts as my second and tries – oh so very hard – to take care of me? I'll answer that one for you:

I. Don't. Fucking. Know.

Mostly, I'm numb I think – definitely in general, but currently? Because there's something eerily familiar and fucked up about the scene before us. She's fucking dead, Sam's girl – oh, so dead – eyes bugged out and hollow-looking, glassy. Foam's clinging to the sides of her lips and dribbling down her front, staining her black tank top white. A long-ass needle's protruding from the artery inside her elbow, barely hanging on to her rigor-mortised skin, positioned just below a shoelace tourniquet that she must've been using to help her shoot-up.

Yep, her day sucked a million times worse than mine.

When we walked in a couple of minutes ago, Sam let loose a howl of a scream at the sight of her, and although I could tell he wanted to – my hand flying to his shoulder to pull him back – he knew better than to touch her. He collapsed to the ground instead. I however circled her like a coroner studying a body. Then I joined him on the fucking floor, where I pet at him like a dog – that calms people down too; right?

What did I find? Nothing fucking good.

To sum up the scene, classic drug overdose; textbook. STAGED. Perfectly, like freaky perfect.

Professionals, but Sam doesn't see it, and I'm not keen on bursting his bubble – he's got enough fucking problems right now without adding an extra one to the shit sandwich he's just been served.

Who's behind it? Dunno. Not sure I wanna know.

Why? Gotta shrug on that one too, but damned to all hell if the fucking nagging voice in my head isn't telling me this is my fault. For dragging him into this shitty life, for making him part of this contract bullshit that binds us to one another. Sam was going to leave – WAS going to – but now he's got nowhere to fucking be, no warmth and tenderness to go home to. Can't say how she got dragged in, but fuck-all if I can't shake the feeling that she was cannon fodder, a warning to me and mine – Sam. Killers don't exactly live without copious amounts of enemies; we rack them up like bullet casings.

It's a fucking message – a threat – I'm sure of it.

"We've got each other. We've got each other," It's more for me than him, but Sam appreciates it all the same – a little too much – crashing his lips into mine. I push him back harshly, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, and he apologizes, puppy dog eyes looking into mine, crying profusely, silently begging me to forgive him his trespasses. He crossed a fucking line and he fucking knew it.

And geez do I wanna kick him while he's down, but his dead girl's less than twelve feet from us and we've gotta go. Plus, I'm not a total monster, and he's distraught – on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"Don't make eyes at me, Merlotte," I chuckle, trying so crazy hard to bring even the tiniest bit of levity to an overwhelmingly awful situation, "We don't have fucking time for waterworks anymore; we gotta get the fuck outta here, and fast."

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We peel our car away into the night – fucking bosses know how to reach me next time they need me and it's time to relocate; we've overstayed our welcome in this shitty town.

Never lived in the South before, so that's the direction my little car flies out of the bright lights of Sin City and into the desolate desert beset and bespeckled by cacti and the starry night.


	3. Louisiana

_A/N: So Mrskroy and I agreed that posting for KMKM does NOT count as violating my fanfic sabbatical… mostly because she wanted another chapter! LOL so all thanks to my beta Mrskroy!_

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"Y'all are awful precious together! How in heck did you two manage to find each other in this tipsy-topsy world of ours?"

One of these overly done-up holier-than-thou bitch's looking at me and Sam, hoping we'll sing like fucking canaries and tell her everything there is to know about us. I fucking hate this part of our lives – the fake chitter-chatter, pretending to like people you hate. Sam fucking loves it – of course he fucking does – answering quickly and with a big Cheshire cat grin plastered across his face.

"Sook's my sunshine!" Sam pulls me into his form, and I suppress the overwhelming urge to vomit all over my yellow sundress, "I'm the luckiest man in the world," I call bullshit, Sam Merlotte, "I guess our meet-cute's nothing special," Or a real fucking thing, "We met at church!"

He exclaims, beaming his pride and excitement. We most certainly did NOT meet at church, but Sam's stretching the truth, and dammit if I'm not the teeny-weeniest bit impressed. We did meet at a place called _The Church_ – an ironic name for such a veritable fucking sin bin. A small – TINY – smile breaks my steely-faced stare across the churchyard into the abyss of nothingness and suburbanite life, and Sam catches it, mimicking the expression. He knows he fucking got a win on that one – asshole's practically fist-pumping his victory.

Touché, Sam – for reminding me why I stay by your side.

"Well, it don't have to be anything too grandiose," She can say it; can she fucking spell it? Doubtful as I wave away the unwelcome whiff of alcohol that escapes her mouth as she moves WAY too close for anyone's comfort – at pointblank range for me, I think as I thumb at the 9mm strapped to my inner thigh, "All that matters is y'all found each other!"

I cast my gaze down, dropping my hand away from the cold steel and tuning out the world, 'cause there is that, we did find each other. She's more right than she even knows – FUCK! Sam saved my life, and like hell I'm ever gonna fucking forget it, but damn if it doesn't feel like a knife twisting in the wound again to remember it.

Some other fucking time, definitely not at church social – I think – dwell on it some other fucking time, when there's alcohol as far as the eye can see, and some stupid idiot to climb on top of and ride until you feel like you're fucking alive again.

'Cause I'm not – haven't been for a long fucking time.

"Sweetheart," That fucker pinches me! Oh, Sam's fucking pushing it; wait until we're outta public, Merlotte, just wait to see what your _lovely_ not-so-much-your wife has in store for you, "Miss Bodehouse asked you a question."

What? She did!? SHIT!

I'm not any fucking good at this doting wife shit; I'm too out of practice, and I fumble over my apology, sounding like I'm three sheets to the wind myself – at an alcohol free event… without the benefit of a flask, like the one Miss Jane's got herself.

"Oh," She chuckles, and I resist the urge to glower, "It's alright, dear! Too much time in the sun I imagine. It does strange things to our womanly brains," WHAT!? Did we step into the fucking twilight zone here?! When we left Vegas, did we hit some sort of time loop continuum and end up in the '50s?! "I was simply asking if you're planning to be at the salon again on Tuesday?" Jane fucking Bodehouse says it like it's question, but it should have been a statement, "Us girls loved seeing you there last time."

Ugh, the salon. Bane of my fucking existence.

Salon's a thing here; my hair and nails have never looked better, even if my fucking attitude's a little worse for the wear. I've been going to the Curl up 'n Dye every Tuesday at 2:15pm for weeks like clockwork, seeing the same old blue-haired church ladies, talking about the same gardening shit week in and week out – thank fuck for the internet 'cause I've got a black thumb, not a green one. I pout internally; I used to be so damn good at this, but not any fucking more – apparently it's not like riding a bike at all.

I hate my new life. Fiery passion soul-crushing hate hate HATE!

But the bosses fucking love it. Apparently I've relocated from sin city to sin central, and I've never had more fucking work in my life, which I love love LOVE. So it mostly balances out.

Small mercies.

"Sookie!" Sam pinches me again, and I decide I'm definitely punching him in the nose later, "Hon, you keep zoning out; are you feeling alright? Would you like me to get you some water?"

"Oh gosh, Sam," I swoon – I'm gonna get the fucking hang of this if it kills me, "That'd be swell, dear. You know how my feminine sensibilities get tested by this harsh Louisiana weather."

I fan myself with one hand while the other's up on my forehead – like I've seen in the movies about ladies in the South – laying it on thick as Sam tries not the laugh. Jane's eating it up like cake, and I can't help but think she's probably eats a lot of real cake too, judging by her choice to wear a moo-moo for this not-supposed-to-be-so-casual affair.

"Alright, cher," He moves my hand to kiss my forehead – ewww, "I'll be right back with a nice tall glass of ice water…"

I'm outta his arms – FINALLY – and able to find some more scintillating conversation, hopefully this time with someone my own age. I offer Miss Bodehouse the smallest of uncomfortable smiles as I head towards Tara Thornton – the only person in the fucking world I've ever met who curses more than I do.

Seriously. It takes talent to use the word "fuck" as an adjective, noun, and verb, but she accomplishes it with ease.

Lucky bitch.

Case in point following in three… two… one…

"Fuck, Sooks! You're fucking eye-fucking that fucking guy!"

Nooooo... What?

Was I looking at a guy?

I snap my head around – because apparently I'm eye-fucking someone and I don't even know it – and find… _him_. No question we are talking about the tall drink of water across the ways – and not the one Sam's fetching for me. Although… if he brought me back this fucking sex god Viking of a man instead, I may be inclined to overlook the pinching offenses.

"I wasn't!" I exclaim, whispering not so lowly she can't hear me, "But damn! I shoulda been!"

Blonde, ripped, decked out in a designer suit – that makes me hate him a little, but I'll get over it – and so crazy fucking tall! God, I love me some tall sexy men, and he's the sexiest and the tallest. That man's so tall I bet I still couldn't climb him even with six-fucking-inch heels on… but shit I want to give it my best effort! I'm in dire need of a good lay – and I'm sure as hell not going to sleep with my fake husband, that'd be a sure one-way ticket into faux matrimony hell, with Sam believing those WILDY unrequited fucking feelings he's harboring might be reciprocated… ugh, I practically convulse at the thought, vomiting the tiniest bit in my mouth.

Gross.

Not a lot of fucking choices here, got to act all ladylike and shit, so I swallow it.

Grosser.

Who the fuck is that guy? Is he local? Does he live here in Bon Temps or is he just visiting? Why am I asking myself? I've never fucking met him!

"Who is that?"

Shit, each word comes out breathless like I'm fucking lost in the desert desperate for an oasis – maybe because I'm in a sexual drought of sorts.

Yes, come satiate me, tall dark and handsome; I don't bite – hard.

"Sooks," Tara gets really hush-hushed, "How the fuck can you not fucking know who the fuck that fucking is? Do you even fucking read the fucking papers? Or fucking watch the fucking news?"

No, and fuck no.

"Yeah, of course I do, Tara," Lying is fun, and good for friendships – I think sarcastically in my head because I don't have even one friend; Sam maybe counts as a half, "C'mon, if I knew, I wouldn't ask. Who is that?"

Again, breathy.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Thank fuck, Sam's caught up talking to our greasy as fuck neighbor – _Beehl_ Compton. That guy's a creep extraordinaire and I didn't even need my fucking spidey sense to tell me so! No, that sick fuck lives across the graveyard from our new house on Hummingbird Lane, with a big-ass telescope on his second-floor balcony – and guess where it's conveniently pointing?

'Cause it isn't at the fucking sky; I'll tell you that.

I may or may not have designs to shoot out the lens with a sniper rifle; I'm leaning towards _not_ …

See!? Lying is fun!

'Cause, yeah, I shot that fucking peeping-tom-tool to shit less than five minutes after _Beehl_ showed up on my doorstep, butchered my name – _Sookeh_ – licking his lips while trying to feed me some bullshit line about being neighborly and watching out for each other, seeing as how we live so remotely.

One of these days, I swear I'm gonna fucking plug that fucker – contract or not. Already picked him out a grave and everything; Sam helped me dig.

We both don't trust that fucker.

I've almost forgotten about Tara – who pauses for dramatic effect for THAT fucking long!? – before she starts talking again.

"Fucking. Eric. Fucking. Northman."

And she says it just like that, one word at a time, like she's nervous about uttering the name of a god – or Beetlejuice. But I doubt that; he looks pretty warm-blooded to me, not so much a creature of the living dead underworld.

Like me.

" _And_?" Come the fuck on, Tara! This is not how you fucking dish, "Is he somebody important or something?"

Tara throws her arms up in the air, exasperated with me and making a fucking show of it. She wrenches them down quickly, muttering under her breath and frankly unnerving the everliving hell outta me.

"Shit! Fuck shit! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…"

I make the universal gesture for 'what the fuck is happening,' mouthing something fucking similar. I start to do a 360 spin to check my bearings, looking for trouble or a sneak attack, but there's no threat to be found – not wholly unexpected; we are outside a _church_ , mind you. I complete my whirl-around to discover I'm suddenly all kinds of alone.

Shit, that bitch Tara is running away from me! Towards Sam?!

With a devilish grin like she knows something I don't, she turns back and winks at me, taking Sam by the arm and shepherding him away under the pretense she's gonna show him something. I know 'cause she said it so loud the whole world could fucking hear her – show him what?! There's nothing to fucking see...

She leads him so far away they slip out from my line of sight.

Guess my water order just got fucking canceled.

Then, outta fucking nowhere...

"Eric Northman," Fucking hot sex god's in front of me, and I stare wide-eyed at him, shielding my eyes from the noonday sun, willing my tongue back into my mouth before smiling back. He continues, "I do not believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, although I am quite sure I have seen you around before…"

Ohhhhh, _now_ Tara's hasty exit makes fucking sense.

But how the hell did this giant of a man get so close without me noticing? Maybe he really is Beetlejuice… we didn't say his name three times, but it's the only theory I've got…

Get it fucking together, Stackhouse!

"Sookie, Sookie Stack… Merlotte," I sputter out my correction – you're fake married! Don't forget your cover! But I've never hated Sam's last name more than I do in this moment, "And I'm sure I'd remember it if I'd even seen you before. You're… _noticeable_."

He quirks an eyebrow, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

"No…" he says slowly, licking his lips – god, I want to fuck him, bite him, and rub myself all over him – so what if I've got a biting fetish? Maybe he's not the type that'd mind... I postulate as he continues, "I am sure I have seen you out in Shreveport, at that bar… what is it called? What is it called?"

He's not asking me, but I'm pretty fucking sure I know the answer, tamping down any inkling desire I have to let my face betray me.

Yeah, I've only been to one bar in Shreveport – Tasia's Fang – awful bar, detestable fucking clientele, _GREAT_ hunting grounds to locate pricks who deserve to die. In fact, I picked up my last fucking hit there. I didn't even have to stick my tongue in his ear or grope at him; a smile's all it took and he just padded along behind me, so damn sure I'd be an easy lay. _Idiot_. I could practically hear the muted shot I took at him reverberating in my ears.

Oh fuck, what if Eric saw me?!

Shit! I'm supposed to blend in, go unnoticed…

"Tasia's Fang!" Eric exclaims, an undiscernible glint in his eye.

"Come again?"

I'm fucking feigning ignorance; what the fuck else am I gonna do? Not that I'd mind moving again; Louisiana and I aren't exactly mixing well... my anger's reaching new and epic heights...

"And I am sure you will – many times," Audible – not even trying to hide his interest – and, _oh yeah_ , that dampens the panties, "No, I have definitely seen you there before. I would never forget someone like you; sunshine in a pretty blonde bottle…"

"No," I disagree through gritted teeth, forcing a painful smile, fighting back the urge to call attention to ourselves by slapping him for being so forward – because I _should_ slap him to maintain my cover, not because I want to, "My husband and I have never been to Shreveport. You must be mistaken."

"Husband?" His shock's apparent; now I'm all but sure he saw me seduce my kill, "You're married?!" Then he spots the prism reflection from my round diamond ring shining on his (yummy yummy) chest, hitting the spot right over his heart – kinda fucked-up and poetic. He reaches out to take my left hand, cradling it in his as he examines my wedding set; the contact sends pleasurable shivers down my spine, "Ah… so you are. What a pity… for me."

Me too, buddy. Me. Fucking. Too.

"Well, Ms. Stack... Merlotte," He says winking at me, still holding my hand and testing my will-power - I'm fucking losing the battle by the fucking way, "It seems I have made a mistake..."

And again, outta fucking nowhere…

"SHOO! Mr. Northman, shoo! You let go of our Sookie," When exactly in the last couple of weeks I started fucking belonging to the people of fucking Bon Temps, I'll never fucking know, "She's a good girl, this one. Not like your usual gussied-up tramps! You leave her alone, ya hear!"

Tara implied he's a big shot, but Maxine Fortenberry's certainly not fucking impressed, or letting whatever status he holds deter her from trying to verbally rip him a new one. That's for fucking sure, and it's fucking funny as hell.

Don't laugh, Stackhouse. Appalled; you should look utterly offended and wrench your hand back from the sexiest man you've ever laid eyes on.

I don't wanna do it, but I do, unceremoniously with a well-choreographed blush and a scowl flitting between shame and anger. I haven't fully mastered the doting wife façade, but the innocent almost virgin bit I've got down pat.

Eric isn't moving; he's planted to that fucking spot apparently, unexplained mirth dancing in his expression, as if I've just done the most amusing thing ever.

Fucker.

"Thank you, Mrs. Fortenberry," I offer with the smallest hint of faux regret in my voice – people expect that kinda bullshit, "I had no idea he had such a reputation," That's true, "had I know, I would've ceased our brief interlude before it began."

The opposite; I probably would've propositioned him. I need a fuck-buddy, and preferably one no one will believe if he decides to sing like a fucking canary.

Too late now.

"Well that's what friends are for; don't worry, I'll always be watchin' in case you misstep and need some help getting back on the straight and narrow," Comforting – _NOT_ , "Watch out for that one," She points her bulbous finger at Eric, accusation rife in her tone, "That one can't be trusted, and if you give 'im an inch; he'll take a mile! He's a real lady-killer!"

Oh, _really_...I know I raise an eyebrow at her turn of phrase, but I figure she doesn't mean it _that_ way. Although, I chuckle internally – little does she know I'm a _real_ man-slayer.

Eric flashes her a pearly white smile, menacingly, and she's quick to bound away. Now that her fucking sermon's over I guess she feels she's done all she can to save my soul, and I let out a heavy sigh of relief. I feel like I need to issue a press statement on the matter, squash this nosy bullshit once and for all…

One-line: Get the fuck away from my fucking soul – I'm good.

I start to walk away. Everybody's watching us now anyways, attracted by the gossip chum Maxine fucking Fortenberry's tossed into the water – at a church social no less!

Ugh!

Eric follows me not quite so far behind me, and I brush my hand against my concealed weapon, reminding myself it's there and I'm always fucking safe. Not that I truly believe Mr. Northman means me any harm – but the reminder's nice all the same.

When I round the corner – finally outta everyone's sight – to catch some modicum of privacy, I spin around, and knock straight into the lady-killer himself. How does he respond? By placing his fucking his hands on my shoulders and pushing me backwards towards the church's wall, trying to cage me between his muscular arms.

What the fucking fuck?!

I shove him back roughly and with a force he definitely doesn't expect, my gun drawn and aimed at him in less than five seconds. Yep, I'm that good. I should be quaking in fear, if I wanna look like this is outside my wheelhouse, so I start shaking like a leaf – the sight of my gun traveling with a controlled unease. He throws his hands up in surrender, then threads them behind his back before leaning towards me to whisper in my ear, trying to show me he won't be stupid enough to try the same trick again.

"Is that true, _MS_." He outright refuses to use the proper title given my faux-marital state. It's too weird 'cause it's not like _he_ knows it's a fucking ruse... right? I discard that thought as he keeps on, "Merlotte. Are you in fact a good girl? Your gun toting ways might suggest otherwise. "

Fuck no, I'm not _good_ – whatever that fucking means.

I wanna kiss him and slap him with the same breath; I do neither, opting to re-holster my weapon instead, possibly flashing him my panties. He grins wildly as he stands tall once again, and I don't attempt to hide my eye roll. But I silently curse myself for getting an itchy trigger finger just 'cause he got the tiniest bit physical.

I should have fucking screamed instead.

'Why _didn't_ I yell out?' – I ask myself.

I guess 'cause instinct usually has me shooting first, asking questions later... And now he thinks he knows a shit-ton more about me than I'd prefer.

Double-fuck shit!

"Yes, Mr. Northman. I'm just a good Southern housewife who's got a license to carry and nerves clearly not made of steel. Sorry to pull a gun on you, but you scared the living bejeezus out of me. Sam always says, be prepared in case he's not around to protect me... I'm not even sure it's got bullets..." I ramble intentionally to appear contrite and conciliatory, as if I've made some horrific blunder, "I'm not sure what you expect from me but there's nothing else to me – you get what you see."

"I expect that I would like very much to see much more of you, get to know you in more of a biblical sense before deciding what kind of woman you are."

He waggles his eyebrows at me, and I wonder if his outburst over my marital state wasn't anything other than pure shock, 'cause it's done nothing to deter his forwardness. In truth, his cockiness is really starting to fucking irritate me; who the fuck does he think he is? God's gift to women?

That's probably exactly what he thinks.

Okay, so he might be just that, but it's definitely unsexy that he knows it, and that he thinks I'm going to drop my panties less than an hour after meeting him. I'm not a "good" anything, but I've got some fucking morals, and I DEFINITELY don't sleep with every guy that wants in my pants – mostly I kill them.

Mostly.

Seems a shame to kill anyone as fucking pretty as him though, so this time I fucking slap him, like I apparently should've done before. Momentarily, he gapes at me like a fish flopping around on the dock while rubbing at his reddening cheek. He struggles to regain his composure, become the steely-faced asshole who just tried to proposition me, but I don't wait before taking a verbal slice at him.

" _Mr_. Northman," I can be overly formal too, "some women may stand for that sort of dirty talking but I am NOT one of them!"

I scream at a roar, not caring whose attention we attract.

And I fucking mean it! I'm _many_ fucking things, but I am NOT _that_ kinda woman!

I'm guessing Mr. Big Stuff's not used to not getting what he wants – that turns me off a little too – as his shock turns to a fuming pout before his placid countenance returns.

He speaks a minute later, regret laced in his tone.

"I owe you an apology. Clearly I have offended you," You think?! "And mistaken you for someone else," Small mercies on that one, "You surprise me, and I must admit that I find that to be a rare quality in a woman."

"You disgust me," I quip back, not even pausing to chew on my words before spitting them out – it's like I can barely control myself right now!

He leans down, planting a chaste kiss on my cheek before I even have a chance to react or glean his intentions, like I'm in a daze, caught in a Northman fog.

What _the fuck_ is this guy doing to me? One minute I'm yelling at him, and now I'm letting him kiss at me!? The cheek, but still...

"And while I do not doubt that is true, I imagine I intrigue you a little bit also, perhaps almost as much as you intrigue me."

His oceanic blue eyes rest on mine as we both stand in silence, and I hate to admit it to myself, but he's a little bit right. Even though I don't know fucking why, I feel… like I could be _me_ , and he'd… _like_ it. But I'm not going to tell him that he's not so much wrong as he is right. He doesn't need anything adding to that ego he's toting around. If his head gets any bigger, he might just keel over; his neck unable to support the weight. It's a funny mental image, and I stifle the urge to laugh, failing miserably.

"Even now, so different from anyone I have ever met," He whispers to himself, his eyes never leaving mine as he cautiously reaches forward to take my hand in his once again.

My breath hitches – what the fuck?! – as my lady bits begin to tingle at the thought of him touching me again.

Fucking traitors.

"SOOKIE!" Sam screams as he gallops towards us, Eric's hand dropping to his side like a dead weight, "there you are, sweetheart! I was just worried sick when I couldn't find you."

I take a large step away from Eric and into Sam's open arms, relief painted on my face – not one ounce of it fake – grateful I'm outta that fucking strange moment that started unfolding between me and the Viking sex god. Sam checks me over quickly before thrusting his hand out towards Eric to shake his hand 'hello.'

Eric cracks Sam's knuckles with his iron grip.

Fucking men.

"Sam, Sam Merlotte; Sookie's husband," Eric's expression is priceless as he sizes up Sam; salt meet wound. I shouldn't like that he's jealous of Sam, but I kinda love it all the same, "She's not talking your ear off over here, is she? She can really be quite the chatterbox when she gets going."

I whip my head around to glare at Sam, narrowing my eyes.

Nope, that's not even kinda fucking true. (Well maybe when there's alcohol involved...)

"She was not," Eric replies coolly, almost as if he's offended by Sam implying I'm annoying him, "She has been quite the delight, a welcomed breath of fresh air."

Laying. It. On. Thick.

I swear I hear Sam fucking growl – with this caveman display and the pinches he's in for a fucking long-ass night – as Eric grabs my hand, kissing not on the back, but on my palm in a disturbingly tender gesture. I'm thrown off-guard as I try not to melt into a pool at his feet, but I manage to smile all the same, wondering what the fuck that means, and swearing to myself I've got some internet surfing in my future.

Surely, it means something…

Or do I just fucking want it to?

UGH! THIS WON'T DO!

I CAN'T ever see him again. He'll fucking ruin everything! My job, my life… me.

And then Eric's gone, sauntering away without another word. Not even glancing behind him as Sam yells 'BYE' in the most disrespectful tone he can muster, hands fisted at his sides as he tries to calm his fucking demons.

It takes him seconds – like I said, he's much fucking better at it than I am.

"Sooks, you gotta stay away from that bastard," Agreed, can't afford any weaknesses, "he's trouble with a capital T," I wish I'd never fucking seen Music Man, now that fucking song's stuck in my head, "and he owns Tasia's Fang, that little sin bin you hunt in. He's got a fucked-up reputation that might even make _your_ skin crawl. Wouldn't be surprised, not one damn bit, if he was one of the next ones to come up on your list."

I don't like that it bothers me that it's a possibility, which means I probably need to kill him, swiftly and without mercy – to be free of the sickness he's apparently already infected me with.

Fuck my fucking life.

"Now let's get back to the social, cher. Everybody's been wonderin' where you wandered off to."

Sam hooks his arm in mine, and leads us back around the corner, my skin vibrating – am I fucking nervous?!

Ohhhh, NOPE!

Of _all the times_ for the fucking phone to ring...

I step away from Sam before answering, earning a sea of confused glances courtesy of our fellow parishioners.

"What?!"

I growl in a hushed whisper, my hand obviating the utterance from reaching the ears of the church goers and Sam. There's some buzz, buzz, buzz on the other side of the line as my boss confirms my acceptance of the next contract, filling me in on some key details – height, weight, hair color…

Name.

And then I smile widely – 'cause suddenly my day just got shit tons better. In fact, today just fucking became the best day of my fucking life.

No joke, no lie.


	4. Ms Northman

_A/N: So yeah, it's been awhile. MrsKroy requested another chapter, so I delivered._

 _Trigger warnings galore. Foul language. Hints to sexual assault. Definitely murder. Enjoy._

* * *

 **oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

* * *

"Cher? Everything ok?"

Why would I not be fucking fine!? It was a phone call, not a firing squad!

The Bon Temp blue-haired church boobies are fucking watching me like they've never seen someone with a cell before as Sam queries my mental state, concern awash in his expression. He's been less than enthused about the amount of work I've been assigned since our move to Louisiana. He's worried it's breaking me, while it's actually doing quite the opposite – it's allowing me the small respite of getting to be my fucking self for once.

Because I'm going fucking bonkers in this one-stoplight town.

It's a hair's breadth easier being fake when you get to be yourself some of the time, but in Louisiana everybody's always watching - and I'm going bat shit crazy. Vegas is different; no one expects you to be sweet as pie with a cherry on top, but in Bon Temps you'd better believe being anything but will crank up the rumor mill and get your life under the microscope. So when the bosses call offering up Sin City as a temporary reprieve from my small town captivity, I jump at the fucking chance; my ass'll be on the next fucking flight out. But my day gets one hundred times better when they tell me who the kill is; I practically orgasm when I hear his name - somebody upstairs must feel like they owe me.

'Cause they do, and we are nowhere NEAR even, fucker!

But this peace offering gets us much closer than we've ever been… as long as Sam doesn't try screw me outta all of my fun by raining on my fucking parade. Like I'm gonna give him a chance! HA!

"Listen here," I hiss back at Sam, pulling him not-so-gently back behind the church, away from prying eyes, "You need to lay the fuck off before I lay you out. You're making this fucking experience in-fucking-tolerable for me, and if you think I won't fucking deck you because I'm Miss Susie Sunshine with rainbows coming outta her fucking ass, you're fucking wrong. I'd _LOVE_ to fucking move. So just give me a reason, Sam. Give me a reason to drag your ass back out there and beat you 'til you're blue or the cops haul me away."

"Geez, Sook!" Sam bites, "I was just tryin' to bring you some sense of normalcy. Thought you'd like gettin' to be like everyone else for once in your life!"

Color me fucking shocked, and I've got my mouth gaping open and everything to prove it.

Is this what vanilla people are like?

 _Gross_.

Do _NOT_ sign me up for being normal – I'm happy to let my freak flag fly, thank you very much! Because that shit sounds like a waking nightmare. I'm feeling suffocated just _thinking_ of walking back over to that band of harpies called a church group – sans Tara – who watch me like circling hawks, and disgust me to no end with their hypocritical bullshit.

Now that I think about it, this HAS been the stuff my fucking night terrors are made of.

"NO!" I growl with daggers in my tone, "I've _never_ wanted to be like everyone fucking else! Why the FUCK," I scream the word with all the force I can muster at a gritted, hushed whisper-like volume, "do you think I'd wanna be normal!?"

Sam looks apologetic – GOOD! He fucking should! The meddling asshole…

"Sooks," God, I'm starting to fucking hate that nickname, "Your life's just been," he pauses, sighing as he runs his hand through his shaggy dirty blonde hair, "Shitty. It's been shitty, cher. You got dealt a shit hand, and I thought you'd wanna know what it feels like to be someone who didn't hafta to deal with the kinda shit you're used to living through on a daily basis. Isn't that the whole fucking," Whoa, Sam using the fuck word? Shit just got real, "point of this bullshit? To grab for something better down the line?"

I can't even _begin_ to pretend I'm contemplating Sam's idiotic question.

No! I scream in my head, and then out loud in his face.

I guess not?

I think much more quietly to myself, hating to admit it for even half a fucking, make it a real fucking thought. 'Cause I'm a fucking realist, not an optimist.

I've never really put much thought against whether or not there was a fucking end game result to this little 'Sookie's a hired assassin' gambit. Mostly I figure it's just another fucking way to live out what's been the shitstorm that is my life. Finish it out. Until I died, from a revenge kill or…

There is no fucking 'or' in my mind. I guess I've only ever really thought I'm gonna find my end at the barrel of a gun. But apparently Sam's got other designs… he wants something _normal_ , and I kick myself – like in reality and with my heel – bruise impending – 'cause I guess I fucking knew that.

After all, he _did_ wanna fucking leave me and all for some bitch in Vegas who got herself offed.

The thought makes me sick, not violently but still.

I tell myself it's not from guilt, but I know _I_ mighta technically helped to cause her blue-in-the-face drugged up moment, seeing as how I'm all kinds of enemies with all kinds of fucked-up people.

That same not-guilt still fucking eats at me sometimes, no matter how much I try to tamp it down.

" _Of course_ not," I growl out, doubling-down on my earlier disagreement, "I fucking _KILL_ people, Sam! I. KILL. PEOPLE! Do you fucking understand that?! What do you think happens when I go out on a contract? Do you think I lure men back to hotel rooms and fucking make them tea and crumpets?"

I'm spitting bullets and he's just there, standing in front of me, taking every fucking hit.

FUCK! He's frustrating when he's being so goddamn quiet – trying to be supportive.

"Who is it?" Sam says quietly, approaching me like one does a rabid dog. Fair. That's fair, "This time, I mean… Sooks, who it is?"

Maybe I'm suddenly feeling nostalgic; who knows? Who the fuck cares? But I start to smile, real fucking big-like in response – 'cause Sam's got every fucking reason in the world to love this one just as much as I do. The more I think about it the more I wonder if he won't be ten thousand times more eager than me to see the son of a fucker's brains blown out all over a textured beige wall.

In general, the spray gets everywhere; it's a whole fucking gross thing that happens. Don't worry about it.

"Oh, Sam. _Ohhhhhhhh_ , Sam," I moan, just to help fill his spank bank, 'cause fucking is still not on the docket for our not-so-blissful, sham of a marriage, "It's good. Like bite my lip, give 'em an 'O' face good."

Now, Sam's fucking excited.

No, like really, he's tenting his pants and panting like a winded puppy dog.

In a churchyard.

In. A. Fucking. Churchyard!

My fault. Sorry, not sorry. I'm such a bad fucking person, riling him up like this, but I'm just so riled up myself. Eager, trembling, itching for action. It's _such_ a good contract, and although Sam's never gonna fucking hate me for yanking his chain, he's gonna _love_ it this time.

"C'mon, cher. Don't clam up now! Who's got you all bouncing around and grinning like the cat that caught the canary?"

"Mick-fucking-key."

* * *

 **oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

* * *

"Sooo…." Mickey slurs, blowing smoke outta the side of his mouth – like hell that counts as being fucking polite – as his chapped lips curls into a devilish grin, "what are ya doing in Vegas here, Mrs. … Northman, is it?"

Shut up before you get the wrong impression.

Shut. It.

It's just a fucking cover name – it means nothing! I don't harbor hubba-hubba aooga fantasies for the blonde Adonis who practically assaulted me in the churchyard! Plus, it's not like I could run around calling myself _Ms. Merlotte_ and stay incognito.

Ugh.

My fake fucking marriage.

"I prefer Ms."

I correct him gently, my voice sweet as sugar and innocent as a newborn baby lamb, acting as if I'm wholly unaware of the slaughter this piece of human filth surely intends to lead me into.

Quite the opposite.

"What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, right?" I giggle girlishly, coyly twirling my tongue about the straw in my very-virgin, but usually alcohol-heavy drink, "I'm here to… let loose."

"Mmmm…"

He hums, eyeing me up and down, apprising my cleavage for about as long as I'd expect – hell, if I had my way he'd just talk straight to the girls.

I'm tired of having to make eye-contact with this piece of shit. His fucking gaze's causing my stomach to burn like it's full of battery acid and my skin to crawl like I'm covered with roaches. My finger's itching for action as it thumbs at the piece strapped next to my ribcage.

Never have I wanted to jump the gun so much.

Unsurprisingly, his massive paw comes to land on my exposed knee. Testing the waters, it seems. I swallow the puke that upchucks into my mouth. Always fucking forcing back puke in this job.

 _One of the many perks_ , I think darkly.

He's so predictable. They all are, and I will myself not to roll my eyes at his clumsy gesture or how easy he's making it for me. I swear what it is about men that makes them think they're always in charge. Like _all_ women are fucking wilting flowers. Apparently if you've got tits, you can't possibly be a threat – or a lioness waiting to pounce.

It's like they're born with zero survival instinct.

Lucky me.

His hand skims upwards, and I jump – not because I didn't anticipate it'd travel but because it's what he expects me to do. Feigning modesty as I swat it away, giggling into my drink like it's more about the fact we're only in a semi-private booth than where he was trying to move his hand. More puke swallowing. Yay me. But this time it's accompanied by flashes from the last time this piece of human filth laid his hands on me.

I murder those memories without mercy.

Gruesomely.

"Do you gotta a room here maybe?" I whisper tentatively, doe-eyed and biting my lip in that nervous way pathetic, domineering men just love, "Mr. … I'm sorry I didn't catch your name."

Innocent little sheepish-acting woman, thy name is Sookie.

I can't _WAIT_ to show him my wolfy claws.

"Mickey. And you bet your sweet ass I do, Sugar Tits."

He slurs, licking his lips lasciviously, as he slaps down what I can only assume is his key card.

It is.

"Perfect. Give me five minutes to freshen up," I tell him, waggling my eyebrows suggestively, as I palm the keycard semi-discretely. I pretend to do it subtly, but the point is for him to see it, and he fucking does – grinning wide, rotted teeth and all on display, "Five minutes," I remind him, playfully poking him in the chest – _that_ finger's getting scrubbed with a brillo pad later, "and then head on up. I'll leave the door ajar."

I purr, winking seductively, my lashes fluttering with only half-faked anticipation.

Yes, it _is_ perfect.

Fucking. Perfect.

* * *

I'm hot-footing it – casually, but still – towards the hotel room in question, keycard gripped tightly in my anxious and shaking hand. I have five minutes, I remind myself. Five minutes.

It's not a lot – plenty enough for sure – but I wish I had more.

 _Calm down, Stackhouse._

I peer up into the corner at the security dome aimed towards the stairwell – the only one that'd catch Mickey's door – watching the blinking light flicker all too quickly to be working properly.

Camera's on the fritz, has been for weeks – what a coincidence.

NOT.

Sam's a whiz at this kind of shit, computers and hacking. Blows my mind sometimes the stuff he can do. Makes me wonder what kinda great career he coulda had if he hadn't gotten stuck with my sorry ass. I hold him back, I keep him down…

 _Buck_ up, Stackhouse, don't fucking go there!

Keep your head in the game!

It's almost too easy – this whole fucking thing – it really is. Enticing Mickey in a bar on the Vegas strip and having him invite me into his hotel room, without much provocation on my part – I've had to throw down much harder before. He'd been pawing at his crotch, adjusting his growing, _straining_ erection like it was the most important thing in the fucking world. He was lost to the potential to fuck a stranger, a hot little innocent sidepiece he could ruin.

Like that's all I was 'cause it's all I was pretending to be.

 _MEN_.

I make my ways towards the room nearest the stairwell – the Murder Room, it's so aptly nicknamed – only stopping to retrieve the purse bag I'd hidden earlier. I didn't even have to screw anyone to get him this room. He WANTED it, hotel records – privy to me thanks to Sam – show he requested the quick in and out. The area at the end of the hall. Hell, he's booked four rooms just to ensure he's got privacy. I can't even make this shit up!

Fucking idiot.

Small mercies for me.

As soon as I gain entry to the room, I start getting things ready. First things first - gloves. Timer's set next. Then I get to work. With a violent tug, I tear the shower curtain from its rings and drag it from the ensuite bathroom into the bedroom. It's not really big enough for a man like Mickey, but it doesn't hafta be – it's not the fucking point. This hit is different, not just because it's personal for me, but because my bosses want Mickey's bosses to have no doubts that he got whacked. Plain and simple, it's not just a statement – it's a declaration of war.

Not that they told me that outright, but c'mon I'm not fucking stupid.

' _Make a scene'_ – they said, so that's what I'm doing.

I strip the bed, replacing the linens with the plastic sheeting. It doesn't tuck, and the hotel'll still hafta throw out the soiled mattress after, but it'll work. I cringe as I move about different odds and ends in the room, sick that I can't be nearly as meticulous as I'd like to be. I hate – HATE – being sloppy, and that's what all this fucking is – SLOPPY with a capital S.

" _Make a scene_ ," I mimic sarcastically, talking to no one in particular as I step back to admire my work.

Fuck, it looks like the room did for my first kill.

I've come such a long way since then.

The timer buzzes from the bathroom. T-minus sixty seconds left. I silence it and then shove it back into my bag. I move to the front door, leaving it ever so slightly ajar – as promised – and then peel off my gloves, one by one, each letting go with a _snap_. Those get shoved into my cleavage. I'm gonna be leaving more than I ever would otherwise, but those are definitely coming with me.

No fucking way I'm going down for this shit.

I'd never be _THAT_ sloppy.

I shuck my stiletto heels off and kick them to the side. My dress too. Yup, I'm about to tackle a man and kill him while half-naked. I pat at my trusty sidepiece after slipping behind the tiny shuttered closet door. I can't help but tremble in anticipation, my nerves jumping like dancing beans. I just can't fucking believe I'm here, that this is real.

I'm about to get something I've wanted for a fucking long time.

Now all I can do now is wait.

* * *

All in all, the takedown's pretty uneventful – definitely not the knockdown, drag-out fight I'd mentally prepared myself for.

Thank fuck for Krav Maga.

Mickey'd stumbled into the room, three sheets to the wind, calling "come out, come out, wherever you are" like we were fucking children playing hide and seek. Idiot. Once he'd slammed the door, I'd practically pounced on him, delivering a perfectly-positioned rabbit punch to the back of his head.

He went down so quick and hard the floor shook.

I bet he saw stars.

Dragging him to the bed had sucked. Dead weight's always the worst. I bet it looked funny as fuck, me struggling to get him up and onto the bed. Sheer force of will, gritted teeth, and elbow grease came through for me. This shit's so much easier when I get to do it my way. Fuck this fucking 'make a scene' shit. I'm never agreeing to this bullshit ever again.

I can't help but laugh at myself – out loud and like a psychotic hyena.

Like I have a choice.

"Uuuurrrgggghhhhh…"

I hear Mickey groan and gurgle. Show time. I know I shoulda just plugged him while he was out. But I fucking NEED this moment. I need it like fucking oxygen. To breathe.

To move on.

"I can't believe you didn't recognize me, _Sugar Tits_."

I spit at Mickey as he comes too, throwing the insulting pet name he just LOVES to use right back at him.

Eyes-wide and teeth chewing on his gag, he violently struggles against his bindings. It's sad that he thinks he's got any chance of surviving this fatal encounter. He continues to thrash as I crawl on top of him, straddling his stomach with my gun drawn.

"But of course, you didn't!" I bark at him, my voice not only raising several octaves, but also in volume, as my emotions get the best of me. Shit, outta nowhere I'm just losing it, "Of course, you FUCKING don't! 'Cause I'm not underneath you, clothes torn, scratching the shit outta you and screaming for you to get the fuck off me!"

Look, let's not get too mired in the details about my history with Mickey.

But I will say, _HE_ is the monster Sam fucking saved me from.

"I'd tell you to be more careful who you fuck with in the future, but…" I say matter-of-factly, as I raise my gun and press the silencer against the unibrowed spot between his beady eyes, "You don't have one."

 _Piew_!

Whoooooosh.

I blow out a breath I didn't even know I was holding, my world suddenly feeling brighter – lighter.

I was right; I _needed_ that.

* * *

I clean up as minimally as possible, focusing in particular on fingerprints.

Then it's me time.

Water's sluicing down my shoulders, transforming me from a tarted-up, smokey-eyed brunette back into a fresh-faced, bright-eyed blonde. Washout hair color, it's the fucking best. Well, that and copious amounts of bleach. Speaking of which, I grab the bottle I stole from the housekeeping closet, twist off the top, and pour it straight down the drain.

Try to DNA test anything you find now, suckers.

Mission complete.

* * *

I know I'm being somewhat ridiculous, sauntering down the hallway while dripping wet and clothed only by a terry cloth robe when I coulda put on my reversible dress, but I'm too fucking happy.

On fucking cloud nine.

Tickled pink?

I totally get the phrase now, 'cause I'm flush from ears to ankles like I just got fucked six ways from Sunday. I haven't been this blissed out since... ever. The vision of Mickey's horror-filled gape as I blew his brains to kingdom come has been officially committed to my spank bank for future use.

I'm a sick, sick woman, but I dun care - _especially_ right now 'cause I feel high as a kite, euphoric to the max.

I might even dance. Anyone feel like dancing?

" _Ms_. Merlotte?!"

It's said with quite a bit of incredulousness.

I close my eyes, squeezing them shut, because I _know_ that voice – I hate, fiery passion hate, its owner – and my stomach fucking drops all the way to the first floor of the hotel, over twenty floors down. I stumble, nearly breaking my ankle – STUMBLE like someone who's never had feet or something! – and the interloper grabs my elbow, I guess to prevent my otherwise inevitable descent towards the carpeted floor.

So much for a clean in-and-out, Stackhouse.

FUCK!

Eric Northman gazes down into my eyes and I scowl – refusing to acknowledge him or the electric shocks his touch is sending right to my core. I wrench my arm from his hold as I right myself to my normally upright position. It takes a second – or really a few, but not because I'm enjoying the little spindles of warmth coursing through me. It's because I am wearing fucking heels after all – potentially ankle-breaking high ones at that.

That's what I tell myself at least.

I am _such_ a good fucking liar.

And yes, I did put on my black stiletto heels to traipse around the hallways of the hotel naked underneath what's essentially no more than a towel.

I have no shame, _aaaaaannd_ I also had no other shoes.

"You gotta be kidding me."

I huff under my breath, kicking myself – not literally this time – for thinking I was in the free and clear.

I know Fate's a bitch, but damn she sure loves to bite my toned, tanned ass.

Mmmmmm... getting bitten.

 _Get it together, Sookie!_

" _Ms_. Merlotte," Eric practically purrs this time, in that panty-melting husky voice only he seems to possess, "I never pictured you as a Vegas kinda girl. Did your husband bring you here to have his wicked way with you? Where is he? Do you think he'd mind if I borrowed you for a bit?"

Every word he says oozes and reeks of sweaty primal sex, and it takes everything I have not to throw off my robe and let him fuck me hard against the ornately papered wall.

Shit, I _really_ need to get laid!

I don't even care he's being forward, I'm so keyed up from my kill that my nerves are like live-wires and crackling with fire.

Please _borrow_ me, _borrow_ me sooooo hard.

I blame my inflamed and traitorous libido for what happens next.

"Oh fuck no!" Spills from my mouth like word vomit before I can swallow it back down, and I watch his face screw up in confusion right before the next few tumble out after them, "I mean, _of course_ , Sam's not here!"

I clap my hand over my mouth, inwardly cursing myself for outwardly cursing. Shit fuck damn hell! Eric's smirking like a son of a fucker, and I know he's thinking he's got me all figured out. 'Cause I went and did something stupid – broke character like a fucking rook.

Ms. Merlotte's _supposed_ to be the epitome of a _good girl_.

Sweet as apple pie with a smile as bright as the sun and a soul as gentle as a babbling brook. She's the kinda girl you wish you could take home to your mama, but don't take a second look at – 'cause she's spoken for – unless you need a favor. Like some womanly advice or a piping hot, hearty meal. She's definitely NOT supposed to be like me, a hired gun with the mouth of a sailor flouncing around a Vegas hotel naked save a terrycloth robe in six inch heels.

I'm the thing that goes bump in the night, the Grimm fairytale you're read as a warning – TURN BACK NOW – and I love every minute of it.

Even if I do always hafta fucking hide it.

"Oh! Ms. Northman!"

One of the female staff members says after rounding the corner, her innocent eyes filled with wonder – and the smallest bit of confusion.

Fuck me sideways with a wooden broom!

Really, Fate?! You haven't bitten my ass hard enough then!?

"I'm surprised to see you on this floor," she continues, unawares to the potential Pandora Box she's just opened, "Did you enjoy your spa day then? How was the sauna?"

According to the cameras – again thank you, Sam, for the infinite and untraceable loop – I've been lazing around the spa for the better part of the day. It's amazing what that man can do with a green screen. I'm a stickler for the details and I may be the executioner at the end of the day, but damn if he doesn't execute every plan with perfect precision – even from hundreds of miles away.

I smile demurely, the expression assuredly not meeting my eyes.

"It was fabulous. I absolutely loved it."

I respond sweetly – my voice saccharine and soft – as my eyes sweep from the girl to the towering man now glaring at me with saucer eyes, his lip twitching wildly in what I hope isn't anger. Even though I fucking know with certainty it is. There's definitely not gonna be any warm fuzzies between the two of us anytime soon. That look is positively murderous. Trust me, I'd know.

Who the fuck would've guessed that Mickey was apparently the calm BEFORE this fucking shit-storm?!

It was a rhetorical question; put your damn hand down.


End file.
